Sword Point

Chapter 8

When the farewell ball for the brigade had been proposed by the wife of the brigade commander, it had seemed like a good idea-at least to her and to some of the other older wives. True, no one was sure of what proper etiquette demanded when it came to sending one's spouse to war.

The last war that anyone had any experience with had been Vietnam. But that war had been far different for the wives, who had seen their husbands go to war one at time except in a few rare cases. They remembered it as a very lonely and personal affair. It was because of this that the older wives pushed for the ball. It would give them a last night together before the two groups, the husbands and the wives, parted and dealt with their own little wars.

The commencement of hostilities between the U.S. and the Soviet Union had acted like a wet blanket on the entire affair. While it had been disquieting to imagine one's spouse going to war against the Iranians, it was even more so now that the Russians were actually shooting at Americans. The more realistic wives said that it had been inevitable, some even claiming it had been planned. But even the most cynical had hoped that somehow that conflict could be avoided. There had always been the hope that this crisis would blow over and go away.

The latest news reports coming from Southwest Asia crushed those hopes, however, on a daily basis. First there was the commitment of the 17th Airborne Division, followed by strong resistance from the Iranians and by mounting casualties. The sinking of the U.S.S. Franklin and the Gorki began a cycle of retaliation and escalation.

Air battles between American and Soviet planes over the Iranian desert and combat at sea had become daily features of the news. There was no doubt that once U.S. and Soviet forces met on the ground, they would do so with drawn knives and with blood in their eyes.

The ball was already degenerating by ten in the evening. Husbands and wives who desired to spend as much time as possible alone with each other or their families were already bidding good night to their commanders and their commanders' wives. The bachelors had rallied around the bars and were preparing to move down to the pub to continue the party. A few couples danced, while others sat at tables cluttered with glasses and coffee cups and talked about everything but the war.

Scott and Fay Dixon sat with some of the other officers of the 3rd Battalion of the 4th Armor and their wives. The wives talked about the children and other subjects while the men listened to them or conducted encrypted conversations among themselves. Dixon sat to one side watching the whole affair with a cynical eye as he slowly got himself drunk. Fay had been so busy that she had not noticed how much he was putting away. No doubt there would be hell to pay once she found out.

She never did approve of drinking to excess, especially since it usually made Dixon sick.

Dixon watched a group of young officers from the battalion at one of the bars. In the middle of them was First Lieutenant Randy Capell, the battalion's scout-platoon leader. Capell was, for the most part, a good officer. Technically proficient, he handled his platoon well. On the debit side, Capell had a tendency to be impetuous to the point of recklessness and self-assured to the point of arrogance. While in moderation those were good qualities for scout-platoon leader, Dixon would have preferred a slightly more timid man leading the battalion's scouts. He had spent a great deal of time with Capell trying hard to train him in his duties and what was expected of the scouts. Given a little more time, Capell would do well. But time, as Dixon knew, was a commodity he didn't have.

At that moment, Capell appeared to be doing quite well with Lieutenant Amanda Matthews, the assistant brigade S-2. The two were obviously quite tipsy and becoming far more intimate than protocol normally permitted.

Dixon thought about that for a moment as he watched Capell run his free hand down Matthews' side, letting it come to rest on her hip. She simply smiled and drew closer. At the rate they were going, it wouldn't surprise Dixon one bit if Capell screwed her right there.

With that thought in mind, Dixon turned and looked at his wife. She was talking to the battalion XO's wife and ignoring him. He turned, placed his hand on her knee and ran it up her thigh. This sudden and unexpected contact startled her, causing her to jump and turn. Then she slapped his hand and scolded him as if he were a little boy, "Scott Dixon, you behave."

Dixon leaned forward, running his hand up higher on her thigh and said, so that all at the table could hear, "I don't want to behave, that's no fun."

Fay blushed and turned to the others at the table to apologize for his behavior. She was cut off, however, by Dixon announcing to them, in slightly slurred voice, "Now, if you ladies and gentlemen will excuse us, my wife and I are going home to reenact the consummation of our marriage."

Without waiting for a response or saying another word, he stood up and dragged his red-faced wife away by the hand as she finished apologizing, halfheartedly now, for her husband's behavior. In truth, she hoped that Scott wasn't so drunk that he couldn't deliver on his promise.

Amanda Matthews was enjoying herself. She had met Randy Capell at the club one night during an evening "stress reduction" session. The two had talked for a while but nothing more. A few nights later they had met again by accident and had dinner together. Matthews found herself drawn to Capell.

He was tall and solidly built, with a physique that suggested great power, yet he carried himself with an easy grace. His sandy blond hair and blue eyes were soft and inviting. He was the image of what a soldier should be-a warrior. He was also brash, self-confident, boastful and, on occasion, crude. In short, Capell was all those things that a modern woman was supposed to disdain in a man. Yet Amanda found that those traits were enjoyable and exciting.

When she saw Capell at the ball she decided to find out how interested in her he was. But rather than charge forth, she decided to charm him.

Not sure how an officer went about seducing another officer, Matthews started by making sure she was sufficiently conspicuous at her unit's table that she and Capell could make eye contact. At first, Capell was so engrossed in his conversation with other people at his table that he didn't notice her.

In desperation, she excused herself and went to the ladies' room. On her way back to her table she took a roundabout way that let her pass right behind Capell and brush against him. It worked. He turned, his face showing anger at first until he saw who it was. Matthews stopped, put her hand on Capell's shoulder, leaned over and apologized. Capell turned to face her, putting his hand on hers while they talked. His touch sent a warm, tingling surge through her. She felt herself blush as she stood there staring into Capell's soft blue eyes. When she finally told him she needed to get back to her table, her speech was faltering and barely audible.

As she walked back she felt embarrassed and happy. Embarrassed that she was acting like a schoolgirl who had a crush on a boy for the first time, and happy that she had gotten his attention. She wasn't sure, however, whether he was interested or not. Throughout the rest of the meal the two exchanged glances. When the formal part of the evening was over, Matthews forced Capell to make the first move by restraining herself from bounding up and rushing over to him. When he stood and began to approach, she beamed with a childish glee, proud that she had succeeded and excited about the prospects that the night held. She hadn't felt the way she did since her high-school prom. That thought caused her to wish she were wearing something more feminine. The occasion called for a sleek, low-cut black gown, with bare shoulders and slit skirt, not her dress-blue uniform.

That bothered her until they danced for the first time. Capell crossed the room and asked if she would like to dance. Matthews, trying hard to conceal her excitement, simply answered, "Yes, I'd love to." The two started at a respectable and proper distance that didn't last long.

Matthews drew closer to Capell, looked into his eyes, then rested her head on his shoulder. As they danced, she felt Capell become aroused, and her own excitement increased. She turned her face toward his and smiled. In response, he leaned over and kissed her.

For a brief moment they stood still, lost in the passion of the moment.

Then slowly their lips parted, and they began to sway to the rhythm of the music again. With his arms around her, she put her head back on his shoulder and followed his lead, letting herself relax and enjoy the moment.

She had no doubt where the night would lead them and eagerly looked forward to it.

Major Percy Jones watched the couples dance while he sat in his own little corner and quietly got drunk. After two years with the 25th Armored Division, the British officer still had difficulty accepting the large number of women the American Army had in its ranks. It just didn't seem proper. The two young lieutenants, however, seemed perfectly at ease dancing with each other. The blond female intelligence officer, a striking beauty by any measure, was quite competent and professional.

Jones had worked with her on several occasions and, despite 141 his prejudices, had come to depend on the intelligence products she developed. Still, it didn't seem quite proper.

As they disappeared into the middle of the group that was dancing, his thoughts returned to his own plight. Despite his best efforts, he had been unable to terminate his assignment to the corps staff and return to the 7th Royal Tank Regiment. This failure had hit home when he and several other officers from the corps staff flew to Britain for a liaison visit with the British 33rd Armored Brigade, to which his regiment belonged. The regimental mess had been alive with young officers eager to have a go at the Iranians. The older officers, while doubting the wisdom of the commitment the British government had made, were, in their own way, just as eager to get on with it. Though everyone was friendly, Jones, for the first time in his life, did not feel at home in the mess where his father's picture hung in a place reserved for the regiment's most honored members.

After one visit to the mess, he avoided it for the rest of the trip, spending his time alone in his room instead. And now the American unit he had worked with for so long was also going and he was staying behind with the corps staff. Eventually he would make it over to Iran, but not for some time. This last indignity was almost too much to bear.

As the anger within him began to build, he stood up. This action served only to show how drunk he was as he staggered forward uncontrollably and bumped into a table, sending half-filled glasses and cups flying. A couple passing him stopped, the young captain asking whether he needed any help.

Jones waved him on, with muddled thanks. He looked around the room, trying to regain his balance and composure. Well, as usual, Sarah was right, he told himself. It was a bloody stupid idea to come here tonight. Best crawl back to my little hole before I make a complete ass of myself. With that thought, Jones began to carefully pick his way between the tables in search of his wife.

Despite his best efforts, Dixon could not make the room stop spinning.

He lay in the dark for another minute, sweating, trying desperately to keep what little he had left in his stomach, but decided that he wouldn't succeed. Without a moment to lose, he threw the sheets off and dashed for the bathroom, arriving at the toilet seconds before the first wave of nausea crested.

He knelt there before the great porcelain bowl for what seemed like an eternity. What a hell of a way to spend my last night at home-that thought and a stream of obscenities passed through Dixon's muddled mind. When he was sure he was finished, he stood up and went to the sink, looking into the mirror as he brushed his teeth and took some aspirin. The face that he saw looked like death warmed over. Well, at least the outside matches the inside, he thought. When he was through, he turned off the bathroom light and returned to the bedroom.

Only the sound of the air-conditioner broke the stillness. He crossed the room, carefully avoiding the clothes and shoes that had been discarded carelessly about the room in a rush of passion. When he reached the bed, he paused for a moment and looked down at his wife. In the faint light he could see her naked body curled up before him. He wanted to reach out and touch her, but didn't for fear of waking her.

She looked too peaceful and lovely to disturb. Instead, he pulled the sheet up and covered her before turning away.

Stumbling toward the closet, Dixon groped about until he found some running shorts. He pulled them on and left the bedroom, closing the door carefully so as not to awaken Fay, then plodded down the hall toward the kids' room.

Exercising even greater care than before, Dixon picked his way through a maze of toys strewn about the floor until he reached the bunk bed where his two sons slept. As he had with Fay, he covered them and looked at each of the boys for a moment. In turn, he reached out and stroked his fingers through their hair. Tears welled up in his eyes as he thought how much he would miss them, wondering when he would see them again.

The physicist leaned against the building and looked out across the desert.

Even in the shade he was sweating as he smoked his second cigarette in a row. This was the first break that he had allowed himself since late the night before. He needed it. No doubt it would be the last for a while. The Air Force colonel was pushing him to complete the first device as soon as possible. The physicist and his team were working almost around the clock, under primitive conditions and with few capable helpers, in an effort to meet the joint demands of the holy men and the military to deliver functional nuclear devices. Surprisingly, for the first time the physicist finally was able to announce with certainty that he would be able to do so.

After having run several tests, he and his small team had a functional triggering system. Early that morning they had completed a test with a full-scale model containing everything but the plutonium. It had worked. All that remained was to assemble the entire device and put it into a deliverable package. That task would be completed within two weeks, three at the outside. After that, it was in the hands of the colonel and Allah.

The motivation of the colonel bothered him. At one moment, the colonel appeared to be against the project, doing everything in his power to delay it. The next moment, he would turn around and breathe fire in an effort to speed it up. Whom, the physicist wondered, was he working for? Was he still loyal to the Shah and part of the resistance? Was he Tudeh, attempting to delay development until the Russians finally caught them? Or was he simply like the rest of them, torn between their loyalties and common sense, and praying that Allah, in his infinite wisdom, would show them the way?

The physicist considered that for a moment as he watched members of the Revolutionary Guard patrol the area. His thoughts then turned to the more practical problems at hand. How would the colonel deliver the device?

Because of the bulkiness and the odd shape, a missile or a rocket was out. Hiding it in a truck and driving it to the target was too risky. Only a plane could penetrate enemy lines and get the device to its intended target quickly and in good shape. But the device was not a bomb that could be dropped. There were no provisions for that. No doubt it would be a one-way trip for a group of young religious zealots anxious to achieve martyrdom in a most spectacular manner. A two-megaton explosion would serve their needs well.

The physicist threw down his cigarette, crushed it and rubbed his eyes.

There was still much work for him to do before the young lions could do Allah's work. The greater questions of right and wrong would be left to those better able to deal with such things. He was a scientist by training.

Science was what he could understand, and he endeavored to confine himself to its narrow spectrum.

The elation of their victories at Tabriz, Mianeh, Tehran, Qom and now Yazd was beginning to wear thin. Thirty days of campaigning had taken its toll on the men, the equipment and the leaders of the 28th Combined Arms Army and, in particular, the 68th Tank Regiment. Life in the field is difficult, at best. The men lived on a steady diet of combat rations that provided little more than calories Dust and dirt penetrated everything, drying out nasal passages and throats, causing everyone to hack. Extremes in temperature and the failure of some of the soldiers to put warm clothing on before late in the evening resulted in congestion and colds that often led to bronchial infections. The water used by the men to quench their thirst was never plentiful enough and carried the seeds of diarrhea and typhoid. Lack of sleep coupled with brief periods of intense combat and stress followed long stretches of boredom and road marches that dulled their senses. Only now was it becoming apparent to the men of the 28th CAA that each new victory brought them only another opportunity to exist in conditions that barely sustained life and to fight another battle that exposed them to fear, sickness, mutilation and death.

The equipment fared badly as well. The same heat, dust and stress that wore on the men attacked their equipment. Dust ingestion in the engines, turning oil and grease into a paste that acted like sandpaper rather than as lubricants, caused a steady stream of maintenance failures. The army's line of march was marked by abandoned equipment that had broken down and had not yet been recovered. Even equipment that managed to stay with the advancing columns suffered from malfunctions to fire-control systems, electrical components and weapons. Heat and the steady vibration of tracks on poor roads was especially hard on sophisticated fire-control computers on tanks.

Major Vorishnov watched the unending columns of combat vehicles, artillery and trucks roll by. Behind him his battalion sat in a loose laager, refueling and resting after another all-night move. Eighteen tanks of the original thirty-one remained with the battalion on this morning. Of the thirteen missing, only two had been combat losses. The rest had broken down and been left behind. Vorishnov would never see them again.

Tanks lost by the battalion due to combat or a maintenance failure were not returned to the same battalion. Instead, those vehicles that had fallen out of the line of march were picked up by maintenance teams following the army. These teams repaired them and formed reserve units with them. The reserve units were manned by using the crews of the tanks that had fallen out due to maintenance failure, survivors of tanks hit in combat and wounded men returning from the hospital. Units in the vanguard of the army would get the replacements needed to bring them back up to full strength by receiving entire companies or, in the case of a regiment, a battalion from the reserve unit. If a unit was too badly depleted, it would be amalgamated with other depleted units to form a complete one. Officers from the staff-officer reserve would be used to provide leadership in the amalgamated units.

In the Soviet Army, units are used until they are no longer capable of performing their mission. In the West, 146 a unit is considered to begin to become combat ineffective when it drops below 70 percent of its authorized strength. The Soviets are more sanguine, using units until they are anywhere from 60 to 40 percent strength. When that happens, the next unit behind is passed forward to continue the mission.

The spent unit loses priority on everything and is pulled out of the way and sent to the rear or, in the case of a rapid advance, left in place until the army's combat service support, or logistic, units can move forward. The spent unit is then resupplied with all classes of supply, vehicles are repaired and losses in both equipment and men made good from reserve units.

This effort is referred to as reconstitution. If several units are equally depleted, they will be amalgamated. When ready, the reconstituted unit is placed back on the line of advance and awaits its turn to be passed forward into combat.

In theory such a system is easy and manageable. Its practice, however, was proving to be quite difficult, especially in Iran. The major problem facing the 28th CAA was the lack of roads. This limited the amount of traffic that could go forward or to the rear. The army ran the road like a railroad, directing who could be on it and establishing priorities. The highest priority went to combat units in the vanguard and those units required to support them, such as artillery, air-defense and chemical warfare units.

Next came fuel and ammunition resupply convoys tailored to keep the vanguard units moving. Behind them came the army's main body, support units to keep critical equipment in operation and, again, supply convoys. All this was one-way traffic, with only the empty supply trucks being allowed to return.

Vorishnov was not happy with the decision to pull the 68th Tank Regiment out of the lead. He had become used to setting the pace and pushing forward, always up front. He did not relish giving up the position of honor and falling into the line of march behind the motorized rifle division, as they had done during the first days of the war. Vorishnov, however, understood the rationale for the decision.

Soon the 28th Combined Arms Army would make contact with the Americans who were preparing to bar the army's route to the Strait of Hormuz. In accordance with Soviet doctrine, it was the role of the motorized infantry to make the breakthrough attack and prepare the way for the tank units. The tank units, suffering heavily due to maintenance failures, needed time to recover and reconstitute themselves. They had to be ready to exploit the success of the motorized rifle units.

Turning his back to the unending traffic on the road, Vorishnov surveyed his battalion. As he did so, he threw his arms above his head and stretched his body. He was sore from traveling many miles in the cramped confines of an armored personnel carrier. The wire seats covered with thin canvas did little to cushion the body from repeated blows and jerks when the vehicle moved down a road that was nothing more than a collection of potholes. As he took stock of his aches and pains, Vorishnov thought that a little rest and a couple of days off the road might not be bad after all.

Under the watchful eye of their platoon sergeant, the men of the 1st Platoon, B Company, 3rd Battalion of the 503rd Infantry, went about their task of laying antitank mines in front of their positions.

Normally, if the mines were simply laid on the surface and not covered, this wasn't a particularly difficult task. Their platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Duncan, insisted, however, that the mines be dug in and buried. The rocky ground made a simple job a real pain.

The platoon worked in teams. Two men, working with one of the squad leaders, went about marking the locations where the mines would be placed.

The squad leader, using a compass, would establish a direction for one of the men to move in. Carefully stepping off from where the squad leader was located, the man would count his steps until he had moved a predetermined distance. Once there, he would stand still until the squad leader came up to him. Marking that point, the squad leader would set three stakes two meters out from where the pace man stood.

The stakes marked where the mine layers would place mines. The third man was the recorder, carefully making up a sketch map of the mine field so that they could recover the mines at some future date or, if the company was relieved by another, so that the new unit would know where the mines were.

Behind the people marking the locations of the mines came the diggers.

At each site where there was a stake they would scrape out a hole just wide and deep enough to accommodate an M-21 antitank mine. An assistant squad leader was in charge of this crew and had the responsibility of ensuring that the holes dug were neither too deep nor too shallow.

While scraping holes in the rocky soil was hard, the task of the mine layers was nothing more than mindless hauling of the heavy mines from where the helicopter had dropped them to where the holes were dug. The mines had to be uncrated and taken out of the protective packaging. Two men did this while the rest carried the mines to where their squad leader directed them.

Most men carried only two mines per trip. For this task Duncan used an entire squad. Today he used the squad that was on his shit list.

The final and potentially most dangerous task was performed by an NCO and one other man. They armed the mines and covered them. The M-21 mine can be detonated either by a pressure fuse, which drives a striker into a detonator when the proper amount of pressure is applied, or by a tilt rod, which releases the detonator when tilted at a certain angle.

Duncan directed his people to use the tilt rod, which stood higher than the center clearance of most vehicles' hulls and thus could activate a mine when a vehicle passed over it, even if the vehicle's tracks did not run over the mine; upon detonation, a metal penetrator would be driven up into the vehicle or would at least sever the track if the track ran over the mine.

As the two men armed the mines, they would randomly booby-trap one by putting a hand grenade under it in such a way that the grenade would be detonated if someone tried to lift out the mine. This was done to discourage the enemy from creeping into a mine field at night and removing the mines in order to clear a lane for attacking forces or use them later against their former owner. ' The third squad of the platoon stayed in their positions and over watched the work party in the mine field. These men provided security. The Russians were still many miles away, but the Iranians were always near at hand, willing to snipe at Americans or seize a lone and unwary soldier and butcher him at their leisure. A man in C Company who had wandered off to relieve himself had been captured by the Iranians and brutally tortured before being killed and dismembered.

As Duncan watched his men, he thought about the situation they were in.

They were preparing defensive positions from which they were expected to fight Russian mechanized forces. This in itself was a formidable task for a light-infantry unit deployed in the farthest forward location occupied by U.S. forces; the failure of the Iranians to cease hostilities made the battalion's position even worse. Only one truck convoy had been able to make it forward to them overland. A second had been ambushed by the

Iranians and turned back. Their battalion commander claimed that it was the Iranian Communists who had done it. Who had done it, however, made little difference. The fact was that the battalion was isolated, with helicopters being their only secure link to the rest of the U.S. Army.

This did little to instill confidence in Duncan or his men. Because of their tenuous position, each man understood how critical it was that they hold. If they were not able to stop the Russians, there would be nowhere safe to hide among a population that was as hostile as the enemy they faced to their front.

The battalion's main defensive positions were several kilometers south of Rafsanjan, on high ground that flanked the main road and offered excellent fields of fire to the Americans. The battalion's scout platoon was located on the forward edge of the town. Duncan did not envy them their position.

He and his platoon had made a sweep of the town when the unit first arrived. In all his life Duncan had never imagined such filth or squalor.

The houses were mud-brick structures of one or two rooms that held only the barest of primitive furniture. Through the center of the dirt streets ran an open ditch that served as a sewer. The people consisted of women, children, old men and horribly maimed young men, veterans and refuse of the war with Iraq.

All were thin as rails and watched the Americans with barely concealed contempt and hate. The platoon had been sent in to find the village mullahs and search for arms. Neither mullahs, weapons nor able-bodied men of military age were found. No doubt they would make their appearance at a time of their choice.

The company was arrayed with two platoons abreast and a third behind them.

This gave the company's position depth and, at the same time, all-around security. Four heavy TOW antitank guided missiles reinforced the company in addition to the unit's thirteen Dragon medium antitank guided missiles.

Four 66mm. light antitank rockets, called LAWs, per man and extensive antitank mine fields to their front rounded out the company's anti armor capability. C Company was deployed to B Company's right, A Company was to the left, and D Company deployed to the rear, giving the battalion defense in depth as well as a reserve. A 105mm. howitzer battery was in direct support of, the 3rd Battalion. AH-64 attack helicopters operating from an airfield at Kerman provided backup if needed to deal with a serious Soviet threat.

The officers and most of the men of the battalion felt they could hold against anything the Soviets sent against them. Duncan and a few of the more cynical men had their doubts. He had served in a mechanized infantry unit in Germany and knew what tanks were capable of doing, even the old M-60A 1 tanks that were dinosaurs in comparison to the Soviet T-80 tanks.

If-the Soviets were allowed to mass their artillery and hit the companies with masses of armor, the light infantrymen would have only one chance to stop them. And even if the first wave of Russians was stopped, a second wave would be brought forward to either bypass the battalion or conduct a deliberate attack with overwhelming firepower and armor. Should the Soviets succeed and blow through the 3rd Battalion's positions, the battalion would have to withdraw into the desert to predetermined rally points where helicopters from Kerman could pick them up. Duncan did not like having to depend on helicopters that were far away, nor did he like the prospect of facing a horde of tanks with nothing more than a hole in the ground for protection. He cursed the Infantry Branch assignments NCO who had sent him to a unit that marched twenty five miles for fun and thought a SD-caliber machine gun was big.

The dinner party for Lieutenant General Weir hosted by Lieutenant General Horn and his wife had been a small affair attended only by close friends.

Horn's wife, in an effort to lighten the mood, said it was the least they could do for the hero-to-be. None of the officers in attendance, however, even cracked a smile. Weir, who had been in Washington for the past two days for a final round of briefings and updates before leaving for Southwest Asia, thought the remark in bad taste. Betty Horn meant well, but she didn't know what the men in the room knew. Had she been privy to the discussions and briefings her husband and Frank Weir had taken part in, she would never have made the remark.

As soon as it was polite to do so, Horn hustled Weir into his den.

Alone, and finally beginning to feel the effects of the fine white Rhine wine served with the meal, Weir turned to his host. "OK, Bob, you've been wanting to get me alone all day. Here's your big chance."

Horn pointed to the bar. "Help yourself and take a seat."

Weir, being in a surprisingly playful mood, furrowed his brow. "Is that an order directly from the Deputy Chief of Staff for Operations?"

Horn stopped and looked at Weir, then shook his head. "Yeah, that's an order. Fix me one, too, while you're at it."

While Weir poured two tall glasses of bourbon over ice, Horn took off his jacket and sat down. "You know, Frank, you can forget about most of that bullshit you got today at the White House and the Pentagon. You know what your real mission is?"

Weir answered while he handed Horn his drink and sat down. "Let me guess, end this war before it becomes unpopular?"

"Close, but not quite. No, your job is not to lose."

Weir took a sip of his drink before answering. "Now, that's a hell of a note to send a soldier off to war with. Why don't you just do as the Spartan mothers used to do and tell me to return home with my shield or upon it?"

Horn leaned forward and in a soft but serious voice continued. "That, my old friend, is exactly what you are not to do. You will be the first American commander faced with the real threat of defeat in the field since the Korean War. Frank, right now there are four U.S. divisions in Iran.

When your corps is fully committed, that will make seven. Those units represent thirty-three percent of the active-duty ground-combat strength of the Army and the Marine Corps. We can't afford to lose that, regardless of what happens to Iran, the Persian Gulf and the whole damned region. If the Russians annihilate that force, there's no telling what will happen in Korea, Central America, Africa and especially Europe. Do you realize that the only reason the Brits and the French are committing forces is so that we don't send more units tagged for NATO into Iran? Those people are quite concerned, to say the least, that if we go down the tubes the Russians will say, "What the hell, let's take out Western Europe too." Regardless of what happens, you must preserve your force."

Weir leaned back and considered Horn's comments for a moment before he spoke. "Bob, are you telling me to avoid a fight?"

"No. No, that's impossible. You're going to have to duke it out with the Russians. That's the only way we, or, more correctly, you, will be able to stop them. But you're going to have to be damned careful about when and where you pick your battles. We can't afford any long-drawn-out war of attrition or, on the other end of the spectrum, a high-risk operation. Stop them, bloody their nose, but not at the expense of your force."

"That's just great, Bob. "Go out and kill Commies, but be careful."

Care to tell me how I'm going to do that?"

Horn was becoming agitated. "Damn it, Frank, you know what I mean. And furthermore, you know what's at stake."

Weir held his hand up as a sign of peace. "I know, I know. I've thought about the whole ugly mess, and came to the same conclusion.

After years of talking conventional deterrence, we finally are going to find out if it really works. And what if it doesn't? What if the Russians can't be stopped with conventional ground, sea and air power alone?"

Neither man answered that. Both simply sat back and sipped their drinks.

They already knew the answer to Weir's question.

Patiedce, planning and a good measure of luck were about to reward Captain

Gudkov and the crew of the Iskra again. Late the previous evening their sensors had detected the sounds of numerous ships traveling at a little under twenty knots. Gudkov, going on the assumption that these noises were coming from a convoy headed for the Persian Gulf, plotted an intercept course that would place him near the front of the convoy.

With no sign of escorting vessels in its immediate area, the Iskra sprinted until it was close enough to pick up strong, discrete signals and was within torpedo range. From that point, as the Iskra closed the distance between it and its target, Gudkov'slowed the boat, reducing the noise and the turbulence it created. There was no need to go charging in, letting the convoy's escorts know that he was there.

Still relying on its passive sensors, the Iskra continued to track the convoy and began to ease into attack position. Now the sonar man was able to differentiate the signals and provide Gudkov with a better picture of what the Iskra faced.

Four escorts and seventeen cargo ships of various sizes were now within range. The weapons officer on duty, who had previously been the engineer officer, was already selecting targets and computing engagement data. The former weapons officer was confined to sick bay.

Immediately after the incident with the American carrier, he had become emotionally unbalanced and withdrawn. His being relieved of his assigned duties pushed him over the edge. Depression lapsed into a catatonic state. Only an occasional stream of gibberish, followed by fits of crying, reminded the crew that he was alive.

To ensure that he did not create unnecessary noise, he was heavily sedated as the Iskra went about pursuing a war he had precipitated.

Gudkov reviewed the flow of information and monitored the actions of the weapons officer. Four cargo ships were targeted for engagement.

The Iskra could make the shot at any time, but Gudkov waited. He studied the movements of the escorts and watched for a break when they would be the farthest from the Iskra or moving away. While sinking cargo ships was important, it was equally important that he save his boat so that it could sink more in the future. Gudkov knew that one serves one's country best by killing the enemy, not dying for it.

As he watched, the sonar man announced that a line of sonar buoys had been activated on the far side of the convoy. An anti-submarine-warfare helicopter was obviously working in that area.

After a few minutes, the sonar man announced that two of the escorts appeared to turn away from the Iskra and head toward that area, where a second line of sonar buoys had been dropped and activated near the first line. Gudkov guessed that the Americans were pursuing a possible submarine on the far side. Now that the convoy was open to attack from his side, without hesitation he ordered the firing of four torpedoes. When all were away, the Iskra made a sharp turn, dove for deeper waters and began to take evasive actions as the escorts realized the danger and turned away from the phantom submarine they had been after.

The torpedoes' sensors began to track their targets. The range and direction in which they had been launched made this easy. One after the other, they located a noise source, automatically activated their active sonar homing device and began to run for their targets at full speed. The convoy's escorts, blaring a warning, turned to find and attack the Soviet submarine and keep the incoming torpedoes from hitting their marks. But the initial surprise, the close range and the confusion handicapped their efforts to stop the torpedoes, and the speed of the attack and the skill of the submarine captain kept them from finding the attacker.

The outcome had already been decided when the Iskra fired its torpedoes.

Only the results needed to be harvested. Two torpedoes ripped into the hull of a cargo ship built to haul material, not survive torpedoes. The detonations sent geysers of water straight up into the air high above the ship's superstructure. Below decks, the force of the explosion smashed in the side of the ship and buckled bulkheads. Crewmen who had been in compartments where the torpedoes hit were crushed or shredded by the explosion and by chunks of metal. As the explosion dissipated, water that had been pushed away from the hull of the ship when the torpedoes' warheads detonated rushed back toward the ship and into the gaping holes.

On the bridge, the ship's captain felt his vessel heel over away from the explosion, poise precariously on a steep angle, then swing back toward the side that had been hit. Below decks, tons of equipment and numerous armored combat vehicles ripped free of the tie-downs that held them in place.

Crewmen who were off duty were tossed about their confined cabins as if thrown by a giant invisible hand. Those who were lucky were knocked unconscious or killed instantly. The others suffered numerous injuries when they were impaled upon pointed objects or slashed by sharp edges or had bones snapped or crushed as they were slammed against bulkheads, cabinets, bunks and tables. Efforts to regain their footing and get out onto the deck were frustrated by injuries, darkness, a clutter of obstacles and the failure of their ship to steady herself.

As the ship tilted again, the cargo, no longer restrained, slid across the deck and crashed against the vessel's damaged side. The sudden shift in cargo, coupled with tons of water rushing into the gaping holes, pulled the ship over onto its side. Within minutes it capsized and began to go down.

Of a crew of forty-two, only three men survived the sinking of the Cape Fear.